


These bruises make me a phoenix

by hugemind



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom!Sam, Community: blindfold_spn, Knifeplay, M/M, Rape Fantasy, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-06-05
Updated: 2009-06-05
Packaged: 2017-11-02 08:09:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/366854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hugemind/pseuds/hugemind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the prompt: "Sam, Dean, rape fantasy."</p>
            </blockquote>





	These bruises make me a phoenix

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to LJ June 5, 2009.

It's not like D/s. They've tried it, rough enough, a few times, but this is different.

It's not like bondage, either. And it's not about being called a slut or a whore and begging for more.

It's not like bondage or D/s or begging, because those assume that you want it anyway. Sam wants to be able to have no say about what will happen.

This is about being an empty vessel, means to an end to someone, about being made to take it in any way the other one wants it, no matter if you get off on it.

He's never told Dean about his rape fantasies, thinks they're wrong, thinks he's sick for wanting something like that. But he's a big guy, not many people out there who could win him in a fight, strike him down and loom over him. And that. Is what he wants. To tremble there when someone finally makes him get down. To feel the fear pound in his veins when his pants are pushed down his thighs. To see if he could survive it, come out whole on the other side. Maybe, on some days, in his weakest moments, he wishes that he'd just shatter, never make it through.

And because Sam's never going to tell Dean, he takes the D/s and the bondage; the begging for Dean's cock and the sitting ass plugged in the car; the ring-gag and the dirty talk. It's just not quite what he needs. Maybe it's someone else than Dean that he needs.

-

Sam fantasizes about it for so long that he forgets it and makes himself beg _more, harder, tighter_. He doesn't cry when it hurts because he could have stopped it. Once, Dean asked him why the hardcore, and Sam slowly looked at the bruises on himself, didn't look Dean in the eyes, didn't smile. "I get off on it."

Dean didn't smile either.

-

It goes on for a year, two, before the urge to be pushed down and fucked has translated into a needy Sammy, always ready for his brother's cock. He makes damn sure to let out the depressed, disappointed sigh only when Dean's in the shower or sleeping like the dead.

-

Sam wakes up to a sound in the dark, the motel room in complete silence, darkness, but he can feel someone in the room. Is sure that his brain registered a lock being picked. Dean's bed is empty, his ass probably still in the bar where Sam left it earlier. The air moves restlessly with the shifting shadows.

The training ingrained in Sam's body kicks in, muscles tense, aware of the Bowie knife on the nightstand. The second Sam goes for it, the intruder shines a flashlight in his eyes. Blinded, startled, Sam's hand only knocks the blade to the floor. The clatter masks all other sounds, and when the guy comes for Sam, he lands a blow deep into Sam's left bicep, grabs his right arm.

The left arm's limp, useless, when the guy flips him over and ties Sam's wrists behind his back with a zip tie. It bites into the soft skin, stings, draws blood.

"Followed you home, big guy. Wanted to do this to you," the intruder whispers into Sam's ear, voice quiet and unidentifiable. Leather gloves scrape Sam's hips and thighs as the guy pulls Sam's boxers down.

The guy is good, knows where to put his weight, how to hold Sam down; moves different from what Dean has when they spar. He puts a lubed, gloved finger against Sam's hole, pushes in. Two and three follow soon after, then a hard cock when Sam's still squirming away from the burning stretch.

Sam presses his head against his pillow, lets it muffle his cries, the lack of _Stop_ 's and _No_ 's.

The guy doesn't talk, just grunts, fucks Sam with a tight grip on his shoulder and hip. It doesn't last long, the guy pausing as he comes dick deep inside Sam, pulls out of Sam without a word. Sam's hard when the guy gets off of him, does his pants up and retrieves Sam's knife from the floor.

The flat blade is cold against the back of Sam's thigh where the intruder runs it, one long stroke from his knee to his hip; it nicks the skin on the swell of his ass, but that's it. The guy presses the handle into Sam's palm, already angled so that Sam can cut himself loose. Then the door opens and closes and the air is calm once again.

When the zip tie breaks a few minutes later, Sam's still hard. He heads for the bathroom to clean up and lets his dick go soft. He's not sure who's looking back at him in the mirror.

An hour later, Sam's curled up on the bed, mind achingly empty, not even close to sleeping. He's telling himself that he wanted it, _needed_ it; not sure if it left him broken enough when Dean walks in. The rhythm of Dean's pre-bedtime activities is so familiar that Sam clings to the sounds, fails to reply when Dean stops and calls out to him.

Sam's shaking when Dean touches his shoulder, climbs in to press his body against Sam's, and when Dean's cock nestles soft against Sam's sore ass, arm thrown over Sam's side, palm wrapped gently around Sam's bandaged wrist, Sam feels finally free and lets himself cry.

-

The next time Dean rocks into Sam slow, gentle. They share little touches, kisses, face to face, both of them content, smiling.

_\--end--_

**Author's Note:**

> I tried to make it ambiguous, but yes, the intruder's Dean.


End file.
